The Shattered City (31 page)

‘No,' Ashiol said hoarsely. ‘That's not how it was. You became Lord before me. King before me. You were the Power and Majesty. If it was all some kind of twisted competition between us, then you won.'

Not yet
, said Garnet.
Not until I take everything away from you. Everything. For a start.

Fear shot through Ashiol, and he hated that. Even in death, Garnet was the person he loved most, and feared most. He slammed his fists hard against the window, wanting to break his hands, wanting to feel something other than this.

The glass shattered under his blows, and his hands smashed into the skysilver-wrapped bars on the outside. The pain shot through him, overwhelming everything else.

He could still hear Garnet laughing as the broken pieces of window fell away into the grounds below.

M
acready wasn't one for the musette. Pomp, cosmetick and clowns did little for him, and the only songs he had a yen for were the Islandser drinking hymns that reminded him of his red-faced uncles and cousins back at home.

He felt like a fraud as he strolled into the Vittorine Royale under the guise of a messenger with a parcel of Volcanalia sweetmeats for the Orphan Princel. Poet was on stage, playing at being a real person. Interesting. Macready slid on to one of the benches in the stalls, watching. They were rehearsing a large chorus number, with a dozen or so youngsters in bright, gaudy finery. Poet walked through all the dance steps, calling out instructions here and there, even exchanging a wry laugh or two as he demonstrated what each of them needed to be doing. After the second walkthrough he did it in real time, singing and dancing his number with the painted flowers in support.

Macready felt his blood chill. That lass — the one who joined in on the second chorus with a cheeky line or two about why floristers like their blooms stripped of thorns — there was something about her. A glow beneath her brown cheeks, a fierce light shining out of her dark eyes.

That lad, too, the tumbler. Both the tumblers, masked and near-identical, copying each other's moves, mimicking Poet's own choreography. No one had timing that good. It was as if they knew what he was going to do before he did it. Even when he performed the steps differently to the walkthrough.

Macready paid more attention after that, his gaze sweeping over each of the peacock children. Taking it in. Holy feck, what had Poet done?

They could sing, that much was for sure. But there was more to the song than there should be. He could almost feel himself being dragged into it, compelled despite the creeping worry that he had to get out of there before …

‘Sentinel,' said a low voice behind him. ‘Enjoying the show?'

Macready jumped. Poet was right there, leaning in from the bench behind, lips near his ear. ‘They're all —' he said. ‘Are they not?' Saints and fecking angels, every single one of them.

‘Not yet,' said Poet, looking naked without his spectacles, face white with cosmetick. He was made up like a harlequinus, down to the black-inked tear on one cheek. ‘But they will be, I think.' He grinned fiercely, making a nonsense of the painted-on sad face. ‘Show business is all about spotting potential, don't you know.'

Potential. A dozen or more children with fecking potential. Some could be courtesi. Some could be sentinels. The stage vibrated with their contained power. Not yet, not yet … How the devil had he found them all?

Macready's mouth was dry. ‘I have a message from the Power and Majesty,' he said. ‘You and Livilla are to be on watch this nox.'

Poet looked at Macready far too long. ‘Is that so?' he said finally. ‘Our sweet Ashiol is still unwell, I take it? Unable to make his requests in person?'

It was an unconvincing lie. Macready knew it. The whole fecking Creature Court knew it. They didn't get sick. They did not take wounds for long. But how else to explain Ashiol's absence from the sky? There had been few battles since Velody's sacrifice, and those very small, but there was still no excuse.

‘Won't be long now,' Macready said with false humour. ‘He'll be back on his feet in no time.' The Creature Court had been allowing this unbalance, because none of them had the powers of a King. He had known it was too good to be true. Any day now, they would pounce.

‘I'll be going, then. Leave you to your …' …
cabaret troupe of children ripe to be swallowed up by the Creature Court, as soon as they came into their own
. Bloody hellfire. If this was Poet's game, then what might the other Lords be up to?

‘I'll give the oath, you know,' Poet said mildly. ‘Any time Ashiol asks for it.'

‘Aye,' Macready sighed. ‘You're a loyal cove, right enough.'

 

Her name was Topaz. She had started out as Gemimy, but that was too little and ordinary a name for the
musette. Every demme who started out in a joint like this had an eye to be a stellar someday, and you needed a name that gave you an edge. She reckoned ‘Topaz' had to sit right with all them Rubies and Sapphiras in the company.

Topaz still couldn't believe she was here, that those bright, bonny costumes in the shared dressing room were hers, and she was one of the lucky dozen chosen by the Orphan Princel to be his own personal cabaret troupe. The Princel's Lambs, the company called them.

The Orphan Princel had spoken directly to Topaz once. Not just stage directions and choreography, which he gave to all the lambs. He met her gaze, eyes odd behind those funny spectacles of his, and said, ‘Your voice is as good as any of them, but you need to use it harder if you want to stand out.'

Topaz sung herself raw in the next rehearsal, and swore up and down she saw him smile at her for it.

Bart made it through to the last dozen as well. He was a tumbler, so stretchy and twisty that it sometimes made Topaz's belly ache to watch him. He played the clown too much, and earned glares from the Orphan Princel more'n once for adding too much dumbshow to his act.

They had to know their place, after all. The lambs weren't here to be stellars, not yet. They weren't masks or columbines or songbirds, not in their own right. They were here to make the Orphan Princel look his best.

‘You're good enough to be one of the real songbirds, Tope,' Bart said lazily one afternoon backstage, in the shoebox of a dressing room they shared with the other lambs and casuals. ‘Your voice is as fine as that Madam Violet …'

‘Hush your mouth,' said Topaz, squeezing herself into the new costume for the Bestialia chorus. She was going to be a cat, which she rather liked, in tabby velvet that showed off her hips. She was finally starting to look shapely now she was thirteen and eating regular. ‘I'm only a sprat.'

Topaz had her dreams, though, oh aye. Stellar dreams. The Orphan Princel was going to be the one to help her catch hold of them.

The dressing room filled up with the rest of the lambs, all scrambling for their Bestialia skins, and there was no time for any more daft talk. A good thing, too; the last thing she needed was word getting around that she was getting Ideas Above.

Gussied up as all manner of critters, the Princel's Lambs hurried out to take their marks on the stage. Their stagemaster had declared that if they proved good enough, the number would be launched at the Bestialia — as part of the main show, not tucked away in the third or fourth act like their previous turns on the stage. That only gave them a month and a handful of days to show him they were worthy.

Topaz had a whole stanza to herself, in the middle of the song, and anxiety gnawed at her as she posed in cat stance, false tail swish-swishing. Bart crouched near her, a jot too round-faced and friendly for a ferax, though the red fur looked fine on him.

Her belly was tumbling inside as Topaz made her way through the group chorus and the dance steps, not wanting to put a paw out of place. Then it was her go, and she sang. She stared straight at the Orphan Princel as she hit the notes she needed to, but he wasn't paying no mind to the stage. A lad that Topaz had seen around
a few times stood close to him, their heads bowed together as they muttered.

So much for making an impression on the lord and master.

Topaz sang anyway, putting all her blood into it, her best moves and voice trills, then finished by climbing cat-like up the false roof that was part of the set.

The rest of the troupe crawled and writhed on the stage, carolling together with their critter cries before they all launched into the final chorus. Not only Topaz's cat and Bart's ferax, but a panther, gattopardo, wolf, a real frenzy of birds and rodents.

Not just on the stage. As the song built up to its big finish, Topaz was staring out into the stalls, and she saw animals there, too. Right where the Orphan Princel stood, there was a mess of white rats draped over his skinny frame like a coat. They were wriggling like anything, crawling all over him. The lad at his side was swamped in brown weasels. (Was that right? Were they clambering over him or was it something more — were they filling the space where he ought to be?)

It made no sense to Topaz. Another man came down the aisle, and she saw darkhounds snapping and snarling inside his skin.

Oh, yes. Inside his skin. No doubt about it.

Topaz lost her grip on the lightwood roof. She fell, and heard Bart cry out in alarm. A couple of the other lambs jumped up to grab her, while the others just stared like fools. She landed hard on the stage, and felt something snap. The pain hit her leg a moment later and she let out one long whimper.

She might have lost consciousness for a moment, and when she awoke the Princel was leaning over her,
making a show of concern. ‘All right there, little one?' His cool hand brushed her forehead, and she shuddered at the touch.

Topaz could still see them inside his skin. ‘White rats,' she said, and then screamed as the musette dottore tried to straighten her ankle.

‘Interesting,' said the Orphan Princel. The last thing Topaz saw before the pain pushed her into darkness was his grin, biting and satisfied.

Why should her daftness make him so happy? It made no sense at all.

 

Topaz awoke to find herself in a sunshiney room with roses on the curtains. She shouldn't be in a place like this; it was too fine and she could never pay for it. When she tried to sit up, though, her ankle sent a jolt of pain all the way up to her knee. ‘Cack!'

The sheets were clean and fresh. She'd never seen a room this nice.

‘Ah, you're awake,' said a smooth voice as the door opened.

Topaz covered herself with the quilt, though she was wearing a respectable enough shift (no mends on the sleeve, it wasn't hers).

‘Stagemaster,' she said nervously, recognising the Orphan Princel.

He was more washed out than usual, without his stagepaint, and wearing clothes the colour of white and bone. Not his regular clobber at all. ‘How do you feel?' he asked her.

‘Like a horse has sat itself on my leg,' she said honestly, and he laughed.

‘Aye, I imagine you do. It was quite a bad fall.' His
words were normal enough, but he was watching her in a strange way, eyes darting over her with every syllable.

Was he going to try it on? Topaz knew it was a common thing for demmes like her, that the older blokes in the company expected a bit of slap and tickle if they fancied it, and you didn't get much of a chance to say whether it was to your fancy or no. The Princel was a real stellar, though. He could have anyone. No one else had ever taken an interest in her growing curves. She had assumed her dark skin and eyes gave her some protection on that score — a lot of coves didn't like foreign flavours, though she was pretty sure she'd been born right here in Aufleur.

‘Where am I?' she asked.

‘I hired a room for you with Mistress Nance,' he said, as if it was nothing. ‘Many of our dancers board here.'

He meant the contract columbines — demmes who actually had shilleins of their own.

‘I don't have the purse for this place,' Topaz said quickly.

The Orphan Princel gave her an amused look. ‘I do. Your friend Bart tried to suggest you should rest up in that ratnest you're all clustered into. Ridiculous idea. I need you near the theatre, for the dottore if nothing else.'

Topaz knew how it worked. If you picked up an injury bad enough to stop you doing your job, you were kicked out. She'd never heard of anyone being cosseted like this. Maybe one of the stellars, but she was hardly even one of the company.

Demmes like her got fumbled in corridors, not seduced with lush lodging houses.

‘What's so special about me?' she demanded and aye, she was being rude, but she needed it all to start making sense.

The Orphan Princel smiled at her with that funny little face of his, and sat on the bed. Not close, but right on the end. Mad as a box of frogs, him. ‘Tell me what you saw,' he said. ‘On the stage.'

Topaz swallowed. ‘I didn't see nothing. The lights made me dizzy.'

In an instant, the pleasant smile was gone. ‘You won't lie to me,' he said, stating it as a fact. Oh, his voice; there was such a chill to it that Topaz could have sworn the daylight bled out of the room.

‘Critters,' she admitted finally, in a broken sort of whisper. ‘I saw critters. Rats and weasels and that. Only they weren't really there, were they?'

The Orphan Princel relaxed, all smiles again. ‘You'd be surprised,' he promised her.

 

Three market-nines passed, and there was no limit to the special treatment Topaz got from his high and brightness. A dottore visited her every couple of days, checking her bandages and covering her leg in goopy unguents that made her muscles ache while stinking out the rosy sunshine room.

A couple of coves came to the door of the boarding house every afternoon to make sure she got to the Royale for rehearsal. Bad enough that the other lambs were already giving her funny looks and calling her the Princel's pet — if they knew she was carried there every day on a litter, they would never let her hear the end of it.

Then it happened. After a long, hard morning
rehearsal, the Princel sent the other lambs away to their dinner (oats and grease at Madam Bertha's, one centime a plate) and kept Topaz behind. ‘I think you'll do,' he said, eyes roaming critically over her.

She shivered under his scrutiny. ‘Do for what, master?'

‘For the song, of course.' His earnest expression broke into a grin, the cheery sort that was even scarier than his faraway dreamy grin. ‘I want you to have your own song in the Bestialia Cabaret.'

‘You're cracked, you are,' she said without thinking, and then pressed her hand to her mouth in horror. ‘I didn't mean —'

‘Aye you did,' the Princel said, enjoying her discomfort. ‘I'm quite sane, you know, compared to most of my friends.'